


the whole world stopped on a dime

by garden of succulents (staranise)



Series: ain't licked yet [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Whump, hockey violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranise/pseuds/garden%20of%20succulents
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitty’s sitting behind his boyfriend’s bench at a Falconers-Red Wings game, almost three thousand miles away, when Kent Parson gets checked into the boards and doesn’t get back up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the whole world stopped on a dime

**Author's Note:**

> _Ain't Licked Yet_ is a series being written irregularly and out-of-order, about Kent Parson's career-ending injury and what happened after.

Bitty’s sitting behind his boyfriend’s bench at a Falconers-Red Wings game, almost three thousand miles away, when Kent Parson gets checked into the boards and doesn’t get back up again. He doesn’t know when it happens, but within sixty seconds it’s like a shudder runs around the arena. First it’s the fans, a hubbub of noise, people pulling their phones out; then the referees call a halt to the play the way they do for a commercial break and the players, confused and aimless, circle back to their coaches to see what’s up. Then the Jumbotron switches to live footage from Las Vegas, where a mob of medical people are levering a very small black figure onto a stretcher.

“He’s alive,” the announcer says, causing a ripple around the stadium: relief, then a roar louder of conversation louder than ever. Everyone wants to exclaim something.

On the ice Jack tears his eyes away from the screen overhead and turns, looks directly at Bitty. He holds his hand to the side of his head in the gesture for _telephone_ and his mouth shapes a word that Bitty understands: _Papa._ Then he points toward the tunnel back to the dressing room.

Bitty, rising to his feet with his phone in his hand, nods to show he understands. The people in the seats around him saw the entire exchange, are looking at him curiously (Lord, this is probably all, _he_ is probably all, being televised) but they stand up to let him pass as he heads out and begins jogging up the aisle stairs, finding Bob in his contacts list.

He hears the voicemail message begin, ends the call, unlocks his phone so he can text as he weaves through the light foot traffic on the concourse level. The TV screens over the bathroom doors show that the teams are being readied to resume play, their TV-mandated interruption over. Bitty lifts the edge of his jersey to show the security guard the visitor’s pass clipped to his belt and is let down into the stairwell that leads from the concourse to dressing room. Over the PA that plays in very nearly _every_ part of the building, he hears the whistle start them off.

Because Jack does nothing by halves, Bitty’s pass gives him permission to, under arena employee supervision, go into the locker room and root through Jack’s cubby. When he’s excavated Jack’s cellphone from his jacket, he knows the code to unlock it for the same reason. Shitty can come to Providence and do the same thing. This is the way Jack is; this is the way Jack trusts; this is the way his life is structured. Bob picks up on the third ring.

“It’s Eric,” Bitty says, coming out into the hall and looking around for a place to park himself. The lounge is full of people in Falconers athletics gear with clipboards and concerned expressions. There’s an empty plastic folding chair in the hall and he takes it, guiltily hoping it’s not supposed to be used by someone for official hockey business.

“Yeah,” Bob says. "They’ve got two-thirteen left.” Which Bitty knows; the TVs in the lounge are also telling him there’s 2:13 left in the second period, and Jack is on the ice. 

"He wanted to talk to you,” Bitty explains, “and I didn’t know if I’d get through to you on the first try, so...”

“We’re all just waiting for the clock to run out,” Bob agrees. He swears emphatically in French. "God, what a hit! He didn’t get carried straight into them; popped him off his skates a couple feet away, so his head hit the boards as he was falling.” More French swears. "Alicia got a call from Karen, she’s telling her what to do. Christ, his own team should be helping her with this! They need to have a flight ready for her the moment she sets foot in the airport. Honey,” he calls, holding the phone away from his mouth, “Get off the phone, the Aces are probably trying to call her.”

And that’s what it’s like, frantic surmise and swearing and barely-audible conversations with Alicia, Bitty trying to catch a hint of news from Twitter on his own phone, until the horn goes to end the period.

Jack comes off the ice straight to Bitty with furious intensity, even taller on his skates, and doesn’t even really notice when somebody takes his stick away. He holds his gloved hands out, which will only fumble the phone, so Bitty steps up and holds it against Jack’s ear for him. Jack shoves his mouthguard to one side and talks. "Dad?”

A flash goes off behind him and Bitty is aware that he’s in the frame, he’s part of this, he’s in an image that is Part of Sports History because, for reasons inscrutable to almost everyone here, he’s the guy Jack trusts to get his parents on the phone when something happens. _Thank gosh we’re not out yet,_ he thinks, half-terrified, self-conscious as hell while Jack ignores the coaches and the photographers and the people who form a kind of semicircle around him as the person most likely to have inside information. _The pressure would be unbearable_.

"Yeah,” Jack says, to whatever his dad is saying, and then, “Okay,” and then, “Does Karen want–” and then, “Yeah, okay, you go.” There’s just a little more and Jack’s jaw flexes, he switches the side his mouthguard is on, and he says, “Je t'aime, papa,” then nods for Bitty to take the phone away. Bitty does, ending the call and clutching the phone to his chest. "Thanks, Bittle,” Jack says to him, and Bitty can almost hear an announcer explaining to the audience at home that Zimmermann reserves special respect and fondness for his college hockey teammates, as you can see here. Before they can give anything more away Jack turns to George, who’s standing at his elbow.

"Parson’s in hospital,” she says. "The doctors are seeing him.”

"Yeah,” he affirms, with a short nod. "My parents are on it.”

Then she gestures in a way that clears the crowd around them and Jack, with the peculiar walk required when walking on solid ground with skates, follows her to the dressing room with haste. The crowd flows again and Bitty is left by his plastic folding chair, forgotten. After the initial moment of abandonment it’s kind of a relief. Then Jack’s phone rings in his hand, Bob again, and Bitty answers it.

"Eric, hi,” Bob says. "Jack okay?”

"I think so, yeah.” Bitty scrubs the back of his head with one hand. "He’s with the team.”

"Okay, good. Are you in Providence for the night?”

“I have to be back at Samwell by noon tomorrow. I was gonna take the morning train,” Bitty says, a bit guiltily. If this was _his_ father–

But no, Bob _wants_ him to be with Jack tonight. "It’s a head injury, and concussions are a fuckin’ waiting game,” he says. "Alicia and I are gonna fly down tonight and do what we can for Karen, _except._ If you think Jack’s not gonna be okay, one of us will break off and come over to be with him.”

“I honestly don’t know right now,” Bitty confesses.

“I know that, son,” Bob tells him. "You just keep us updated. Our flight leaves in two hours.” There’s a pause, and then he asks, "Eric?”

Bitty clutches the phone harder. "Yeah?”

"How are you holding up?”

“I, uh.” It’s a question he seriously asks himself and realizes he feels cold, shivering slightly, and alone, and exposed. "I’m okay. Not sure I wanna go back to my seat for third period, though. It shows up on TV and I’m not sure I...”

"Eric, be selfish right now, okay?” Which makes Bitty blink. "We’re all concerned about our prize thoroughbreds, there’s no shortage of people who are going to take care of Jack and Kent. While we’re all rearranging our schedules and running around looking after them, you’ve gotta make sure you look after yourself, too. Get management to put you in a box or a lounge or something.”

Bitty wraps an arm around himself. "I... okay. Thanks.” 

“God knows this old man’s shaking in his boots after being reminded how breakable you boys are. I don’t even know how you must feel. All right, they’ll be back on the ice soon, I’ll let you go.”

So Bitty scrapes up his gamest smile for when the team comes clomping back and bumps the fist Jack offers him on his way by. Jack looks brave and resolute, and that little contact with Bitty frees him to focus entirely on the ice at the end of the tunnel and put everything out of his mind. He’s got hockey to play.

When the team is gone George lingers, looking at him quizzically. "You okay, Bittle?”

"Yeah,” Bitty says, passing the back of his hand over his eyes. "I just need to put Jack’s phone back with his stuff, and then, uh—Bob told me to ask—is there somewhere I can sit and keep track of the game without being out in public or in anybody’s way? I don’t really want to go back there like this.”

"Sure,” she says, taking the phone from him, and disappears briefly into the locker room. Then she reappears and says, “C'mon,” leading him back and to an elevator. "The last time we had a Kent Parson incident,” she says once they’re inside, "you and his Samwell teammates were pretty valuable in helping Jack keep an even keel. Think you’ll be able to do it again?”

Bitty shrugs, kind of tiredly, looking at the notifications rolling in on his phone. "I’m gonna do my best, but I have to be back in class tomorrow. Bob told me he and Alicia are headed to Vegas right now to be there for Parson’s mama, but if anything’s up with Jack I should let them know and one of them’ll head over straightaway.”

"God,” Georgia mutters when the doors slide open on the concourse. "I really hope he doesn’t die.”

She parks him in an empty luxury box where there’s room for ten people to sit behind polarized glass and look down over the ice, gestures to the TV remote and the little kitchenette, and leaves him there. Bitty really is, he supposes, a VIP in her eyes; half of it’s friendly and genuine esteem, and half of it really is how you’d treat your prize racehorse’s favourite goat.

If he turns on the TV it’s the same broadcast as everywhere else in the stadium, but when he mutes it it’s pretty quiet in here. The glass muffles the music playing, the blast of the horn, the roar of the crowd. Jack’s on the bench, another line rotated out.

The kitchenette offers him a mini fridge, a sink, a hot plate, a microwave; the cupboards offer him cutlery, kettle and coffeemaker, mugs and glasses. From the basket on the counter he pulls out a bag of popping corn and two packets of hot chocolate and gets to making them.

While he’s waiting for the water to boil, the corn to pop, Twitter thinks he needs to see a trending tweet: _@kentrawkz97: What happens to Kit Purrson if he dies?_

"Fuck,” Bitty says, bursting into tears, and he locks his phone just to stop _seeing that_ , just to have a little space from people who, bless their _fucking_ hearts, saw Kent as a celebrity; as someone distant, part of a story. Not a reality. Not a boy. Not someone who once woke up on the Haus couch with a hangover, who collaborated with Chowder to help Bitty decorate a chocolate-pecan pie.

Besides which, if Kent died his mom would have to take his fucking cat back to New York with her. Or else give it to his teammates. Duh.

When the corn pops he takes it out of the microwave, uses a paper towel to blow his nose, and pours himself a tall glass of cold water. He spends the rest of the game curled up on the couch, watching the TV or occasionally glancing at the ice far below him, texting with Shitty and Chowder and sending emails to classmates asking him to copy their notes or drop off assignments for him tomorrow in case he doesn’t show up. When the Falconers win 4-2 because Jack Zimmermann works harder than God Bitty washes out his cups in the sink and leaves them drying on the counter, then heads back down to wait in the hallway between the locker room and the parking garage.

Jack’s only greeting when he comes striding down the hall is to toss Bitty his keys as he goes past, which Bitty is A-OK with since there is an idle photographer standing _right there._ They don’t talk, but when Bitty’s adjusting the driver’s seat to fit him Jack reaches over and takes his hand. Bitty smiles at him and squeezes, then takes his hand back so he can buckle up and drive home. When they’re on the road he reaches over and slips his hand back into Jack’s, and leaves it there until he has to press the remote to get into the parking at Jack’s apartment building.

The apartment is a refuge where shocked exhaustion can only last for so long before it dissipates. Bitty spends the time before that happens perched on a bar stool in Jack’s kitchen with Jack leaning into him, his head buried against Bitty’s shoulder. 

“I was really looking forward to kicking his ass in playoffs,” Jack says finally.

“Keep looking forward to it,” Bitty says, rubbing his back with big circles. "Now then, let’s have some hot chocolate. Can I get you to heat the milk up, Mr. Zimmermann?”

It’s what his MooMaw always prescribes for grief: something to eat and work to do. He whips up a post-game snack just to give Jack dishes to wash afterward, sits on the counter and chatters while Jack does it. The team have promised to sift through all the news and text them if anything important comes through, to save them having to sort through the rumour mill until Jack and Kent’s parents land. George will probably do the same thing, more efficiently.

In the absence of dire emergency, even amid heartbreak and the reminders of their own mortality, a routine reasserts itself. Bitty curls up on Jack’s chest while they finish an episode of a show they’d started earlier about plucky Canadian spies in Nazi-occupied France, and then they brush their teeth and go to bed. Jack, unsurprisingly, makes love with fervor, running his hands over Bitty almost as though he’s checking to make sure every part of him is safe and whole; Bitty clings back and tries to drink him up through kisses. He’s not sure about Jack, but finally he sleeps.

4am delivers Bob’s ringtone, calling Jack from Las Vegas; Jack listens while Bitty rolls over and crawls to be beside him. The conversation is in French, which is kind of... a good sign? Jack finds it harder to stay calm in French, and when he says _Je t'aime_ again his voice is tired but calm, and his eyes are dry.

"He woke up about a half an hour ago, for a couple minutes,” he says, setting the phone down on the nightstand. "Then fell back asleep.” Jack closes his eyes and sighs. "There was—a problem with bleeding in his brain. They operated. It—could be bad.”

Bitty doesn’t think there’s anything he can actually say. He just listens to Jack’s heart beating, his fingertips trying to soothe themselves on Jack’s shirt. After a minute he thinks, _be selfish_ , and lifts Jack’s hand to his head; Jack laughs softly and begins carding Bitty’s hair.

“Would you,” Jack says very quietly, “still love me if I couldn’t play hockey anymore?”

“Yes,” he replies instantly, lifting his head to press a kiss to Jack’s mouth. "I would love you if your marvelous ass fell into ruin. And I’d come to your Paralympic curling matches. I love you for so much more than your hockey.”

"Thank you,” Jack sighs, and helps Bitty settle back into place. "I mean, that doesn’t help Kent any, but it makes _me_ feel better.”

"That boy needs more help than _we_ can give him, but that’s nothing new,” Bitty says sleepily.

“Mm,” Jack agrees. "It’s really not.”


End file.
